


One Night Only

by papermoon2719



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papermoon2719/pseuds/papermoon2719
Summary: Bucky is self conscious about his scars. You do your best to fix that. Title inspired by The Struts' song of the same name.





	One Night Only

“Tonight’s the night,” you think. Dinner went wonderfully; Bucky expressed his approval of your dress by a whispered “Wow” when you opened the door for him. In fact, his hand went to your back every chance it got, his thumb tucking beneath the material of the low back to rub against the skin there. It was a warm night, as Brooklyn in July tends to be, so you chose one of your lighter dresses. It turns out that it’s perfect for the simple pizza-and-a-movie night that Bucky planned for you.

Today marks three months that you’ve been together. In that time you don’t know a ton about him, just that he’s older than he looks and he’s got a lot going on in his head. You’ve told him before that he can tell you what he wants to, when he wants to. You’re willing to go his speed.

But you’d be lying if you said you haven’t been waiting for this. Bucky isn’t exactly unattractive – the exact opposite, in fact. That’s why right now, as you’re perched on the edge of your kitchen counter, the hem of that perfect summer dress floated somewhere around your hips, you realize that you want nothing more than him right now.  
Situations like this have been happening more over the past couple of weeks. Hell, two days ago you were lying underneath him on your couch as he rutted against you until you both came. That had been through at least four layers of clothing, though, and you wanted to know how his skin felt on yours, how it would look to see his hips fitted against your own without sweatpants obscuring the image. 

You know what he doesn’t want you to see. It’s kind of hard to miss the metal arm. You’ve only asked him about it once, and he didn’t say much. Just that he lost it in combat and this is what they replaced it with. You were pretty sure “they” wasn’t the military. At least not our military. 

You’re jarred from your thoughts when Bucky bites down on your lip. He licks at it before pulling away and resting his forehead against yours. 

“Bucky,” you whisper, letting your hands fall from his chest to the hem of his shirt. You look into his eyes, silently asking permission as your fingers curl around the material. He pulls back a bit, tensing as his hands cover yours. He’s holding them in place so you can’t pull his shirt up.

“Why don’t you want me to see?” you ask softly, your eyes flitting between his. You can see the panic in them, the urge to run. You can tell he’s trying not to let that panic overtake him.

“It’s ugly… you shouldn’t have to look at that,” he finally answers, turning away from you. You let him go, watching his back as he leans against the opposite counter. He’s breathing heavily, his shoulders hunched as he hovers over the sink. He doesn’t turn when you slide off of the counter, even though you know he hears you. You’re also pretty sure he hears you pull your dress over your head.

You say his name again, slowly reaching out to lay a flat palm against the small of his back, feeling as though you’re approaching a wounded animal. He flinches a little bit, but you don’t pull away. “Bucky, look at me,” you plead softly. When he doesn’t you turn around to flip the kitchen light on. He squints against it for a moment before turning to you.

You let him look at you for a moment, nervous under his stare but knowing that you have to do this. You have to let him know that you want this, that you want him.  
He doesn’t move as you approach him, and lets you take his good hand. You press it against your belly, to that smattering of ripples on either side of your navel.

“Stretch marks,” you explain softly. “I hate them.”

His eyebrows come together as he looks between your eyes and the skin he’s touching. “I have them, and these,” you move his hand to your thigh just below your hip, “and here.” His hand flinches a little when you lay it on your breast.

“I also have this scar,” you say, pointing to the small spot of white flesh on your ribcage, “from chicken pox. And a dozen other things about my body that I don’t want you to notice.”

Bucky’s gaze softens. 

“I want you, Bucky. I want your scars,” you finally say. He looks at you, his eyes boring into yours, like he’s searching you for a hint of a lie. Finally, when he doesn’t find one, he nods once. You step closer to him, your hands sliding up his chest. 

“Bedroom?” he asks softly, and you nod. You let him lift you, hooking your ankles behind his back as he carries you to the bedroom. Your hands tangle in the hair at the base of his skull as you drop your face to the crook of his neck, pressing soft kisses into it until he makes it into the room. You feel him lowering you to the bed and you let him. He leans over to turn on the bedside lamp before straightening awkwardly beside it. 

“C’mere,” you say, rising to your knees. You start to push his shirt up and feel him tense, so you lean forward and press a reassuring kiss to his sternum. “It’s okay,” you whisper. You smile at him when he relaxes, raising his arms above his head as you pull the shirt over his head. You work his pants off slowly, finding his mouth again once they’re at his ankles. He toes off his shoes and socks before stepping right up to the edge of the bed.

You pull away then, leaning back enough to properly look at him. You have to try hard not to grimace. The skin where his metal arm was attached is a deep pink, scars cross crossing the skin, a permanent reminder that it was only attached for use, not aesthetics. Your eyes travel across his chest and you find yourself reaching forward to touch. You catch yourself just before your fingertips make contact and you look up at him.

“Is it alright if I…?” you ask. Bucky nods.

The scars are many, some smaller than a pea, most two or three inches long and rough under your hands. You gently go over each one, trying not to cry. You go over each one slowly and methodically, memorizing them with your fingertips. When you finish with the ones on his chest and abdomen, he turns without asking. You repeat the same movements across his back. By the time you reach his shoulder your tears spill over. Bucky must sense it because he turns to face you, his hands immediately going to your cheeks to wipe them away.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, turning into the cold metal of his left hand. You press a kiss to the palm before reaching out for him. He lets you embrace him, picking you up again only to swing you around so he can sit on the edge of the bed. You hook your ankles around his back again, pressing your face into his neck.

You aren’t sure how long you sit like that, holding yourself tight to him as he rubs soft circles into your back. You finally pull away, a sudden burning deep in your belly that can only be put out by having him inside you. 

“Babe,” he whispers as you reach behind you to unclasp your bra. You tug it off of you and lean forward, pressing your chest firmly against his as your mouth meets his. You can feel the cold twinge of metal against the outer edge of your right breast and you moan into his mouth, pressing impossibly closer as he twists and lays you out across your bed. 

His hand is suddenly between your legs, dipping under your panties and into your slit. He moans as you gasp, bucking your hips. You’re slick enough that his fingers slide into you without and friction and you cry out. He thrusts in and out a few times, pulling back to watch you writhing beneath him. 

“Bucky,” you moan, your hands running down to start pushing at the waistband of his underwear. You manage to get them pushed mostly down before he has to pull away to get them the rest of the way off. You clench around nothing when he slides his wet fingers into his mouth, his eyes closing blissfully. When he opens them again he catches you looking, and he smirks.

“God you’re beautiful,” he groans, looking you up and down. He stands just long enough to pull off his boxers and tug your underwear off and then he’s above you, his mouth sucking and nipping marks into the hollow of your throat.

“Bucky, please,” you moan, rolling your hips to hint at him. He chuckles but looks up at you, his face level above yours as he reaches down with his metal arm to tug your knee above his hip. He reaches down with the same hand and guides his pulsing cock into you, breathing your name like a prayer as he bottoms out. He gives you a moment to adjust, watching your face until you give him a short nod.

He starts out slow, the roll of his hips steady, but you want more. “Fuck me, Bucky,” you breathe, and he looks at you with wide eyes. “Hard,” you moan, confirming that this is what you want. He doesn’t waste a second, suddenly going from gentle to feral in less time than you’d anticipated. You can’t keep the noises at bay when he’s doing this to you, each pounding thrust drawn a moan or a gasp or a “yes” from your lips.

You curl your arms, grasping his shoulders to keep yourself grounded while he mercilessly drives into you. Just when you think you can’t take it anymore he moans, his fingers going between your legs to rub circles into your clit. You cry out his name as you come, vaguely aware that he’s doing the same as he spills into you. 

He rolls off of you after a minute, tugging you into his side. Neither of you speaks as you let your fingertips dance along his chest. His fingernails scrape gently along your scalp and you’re becoming sleepier, but you know you’ll wake up freezing if you don’t get a blanket. You feel Bucky’s eyes on you as you sit up and grab one from your footboard, a smile tugging at his lips when you drape it over the two of you.

“Can I stay?” he asks softly, and you prop yourself up to look into his eyes. You can’t help but glance at his shoulder one more time, your fingers brushing lightly along the seam where flesh meets metal. 

“On one condition,” you reply. He raises his eyebrows in question. 

“Your scars stay, too.”


End file.
